was illicitgirlsridingclub.com but now is the blogspot address for a while anyway
note, 7 Feb 2022. Without any doubt soon this will be made into a little book.
I suppose ultimately the population still stands 'divided' - those who want masks and all that to continue forever. And ...
(well i jot on that at https://homelesscommunistwillvotetory.blogspot.com/ please note these pages here i wrote about wat the science NOW SAYS!!!... a year ago nearly, and i have many recorded and chronicled talks may 2020 stating, ... outdoors, great sleep, loads UV, great diet, and MOVE keep moving... etc...no one would listen then and just wanted to feel sorry for themselves)...
...and... we did not, ever feel sorry for ourselves...indeed add to the list above made quite a few new friends this time a year ago.... new friends one would not normally have made...in other words winter 2020/1 not for some 'crisis care' false paradigm - NO ONE AT ALL 'cared' for anyone our region, we just all said fuckit (though not in front of the children - the nags on other hand used to such language, fuckit, lets live like we always SHOULD have lived...fun, smiles, jokes, and loads of cuntry stuff outdoors both generations mucking in..."
it needs a book....and if the neurotic wish it read it or more likely post insults and Miss Information in chat or comment boxes, with a mask on..... thats their lookout.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++
note December 2021
STILL TO BE FULLY EDITED INTO BETTER PROSE AND STORIES. It will make a great book one day. Maybe film. Busy as i have had to move house - 20 + years of all sorts of animal cages etc etc to rehome....so, sadly not yet able to get back and sit down and edit nicely just yet. But as the nonsense continued it was evident what a lovely winter we had last year. I wish it would have continued. All of it. Us against the world, kindof...
Lots of typos and bad design as i do a few online storytelling thingummies, and when the weather is as warm and splendid as the last few weeks, better things to do than get back to working on them.
I got rather enjoyably busy summer 2021, and have also had to move out of a many year tenancy autumn winter 2021 taking large amount of time. I did not have time to get back to this - where we live internet signals and the like make anything online rather a malarkey to say the least.
But it is time to write the book now. I have very extensive chronicles of every moment of our lovely winter 2020/21 and spring this year.
The club was sort of 'disbanded' in that ... well, it was hard work keeping one old thing focused, as she passed into her 70s, because 'lockdown's whether complied with or not had taken such a toll on so many deep down, and there was another input not quite on the same page, as me.... and my sidekick. Lunatic alcoholics will always win out in the end, if one is a truly rural zenned person and knows better than to rise to any nonsense. That is who they need to be. And is nothing to do with me, or those of us who only became renewed into something we won't ever forget that winter.
No one can take though from what still remains the best of all memories possible, when most of the rest were stuck not keeping their spirits up.
BELOW NEEDS TO BE WORKED ON STILL
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
General edit and tart up, and better photos and film may well happen in August 2021.
Well that’s the plan...
MORE PHOTOS AND FILM WILL BE ADDED BY SEPTEMBER it all takes time and best to enjoy the summer while we have some, so all is delayed...
SOME PHOTOS: SCROLL DOWN THIS PAGE. SOME ON PHOTOS PAGE - see top bar of this page for the link to click.
This is a temporary format cobbled quickly together to share with a few for now.
One of our crew knows that maybe one day a small book just about how a few smiles came to the faces of a few young lasses, maybe should happen. It will be universal. About no one in particular. Set anywhere. In fact more a fairytale or fable. It was a fairytale come true for a few of us. especially myself, who had long thought the fabulous world of the preteen was one losts in the mists of the hills, to me, forever....and then something rather superb, just happened.
IGRC
May 13 2021
But, autumn 2020 - this was not the plan at all ...! I just fancied perhaps using a very underused paddock to maybe grow some veg in a corner!
flutteryeyelash emoji, even if the lasses are sane enough to know emojis are pants: please.... this is at the mo an entirely private page - just to share with only a few selected individuals, who can be trusted to ....zip it...for now. Please, idiots say idiotic things, and seems there's even more of a pandemic of them these days than ever before.
DO NOT SHARE...pretty please... but do get in touch with any ideas.... or if want to join - no joining fee. Nor fees ever.
ALL is under construction, a much cleaner version will be online sept 2021 with many more pics too.
*********
Footnote, 16 May. Ok, as a 'headnote' - this scribe sometimes plays with words a tad poetically, perhaps the true sense of what is now additionally meant can be gleaned, though this one dimensional medium makes it hard.
It struck today something is missing from that quickly cobbled together, below. And it is interesting it was missed out in first cobbling. People take up too much of the mind at times. People need so much attention from people....
The backdrop - from autumn 2020, is obviously, people, around and about - in several very small borderland towns, rather shuffling about, worried expressions; and as we know many will have been somewhat suffering the effects of isolation and angst. I know that tragically a fair number had drunk or drugged themselves half to death. Even here....
None of our people who have come to share use of, as yet just the horses - still looking for a veg grower, are of the 'horsey' brigade. In fact the parents - whist all have in earlier years ridden to some extent, have resisted friendly chiding to have a go from a certain only bloke around ("cmon...mum and lass up in the hills together there is no more sublime a moment..") . This has been only for the children.
It is necessary though for us adults to also have fellowship and see that these previously underexercised horses do indeed get the exercising they need. Older horses seize up if not regularly out for a trot. Well exercised, these beats may have a few more years useful riding life in them. And health of course. 'Animals first' (one of several mantras) means no matter what daggers are lined up behind my back, at least try and get a little gang collected together to keep them ridden out. They were not in good nick when i came across them.
But here is the thing. That fellowship that we have created winter past, among a previously disparate band of strangers is quite special. The last few weeks it is as if something remarkable did coalesce. We have had several joyful days where our recently cemented solidarity and fellowship have been obvious. Children see us joshing and playful between whispered, censored rural-woman extremely rude jokes, as we get into routines of how we will keep the show on the road with a little more horse use planned. When of course almost all other adults they met spring 2021 had worried lines and nithng at all alive to say to them.
Seems the initial sometime human hurdles are now down for good.
But there is a 'star' I had forgotten to mention. Or did not describe in it's fullness. Which is remiss, as in fact it is the catalyst to it all.
On reflection the English language seems a little remiss. The New Age brigade the last decade seem to have rather colonised the word 'space'. This land shown - the 'paddocks', is a mere five acres. The scribe of this for many years has roamed the hills and byways all about. And this mere five acres - it doesn't sound much, nevertheless has an almost magic quality about it; relative to many a similar space known well. It feels so expansive and so open, it does have a special effect on the soul in a way few other places do. Growing up on a farm before the fashion for the megga field, a five acre sized field is in my soul, but these paddocks feel far larger than their official dimension. Almost a Tardis, and almost a Portuguese 'saudade'. That is an active recreation of something lost that was once so special and good. And it is possible just maybe to get it back. "saudade is not finished" a Portuguese woman told me summer 2021. Hiraeth on the other hand, is dead. Gone. Just a moan.
Arriving, yes the hard work of creating real fellowship among a very different rag tag band of hands-on-deck in the background, not without its tensions at times, and coming to the corner gate of the paddocks one is literally transformed.
The land is south facing and largely surrounded by woodland. But there is an almost amplified sense of true openness. The psychogeography of it seems to immediately elevate the soul. And make what is behind - in all senses of that in the context of the last year, feel as nothing. It is only about what is ahead in that land.
The small towns even here, nowadays became a sort of Hampstead - fussy and busy, folk figuring how on earth to be, as it seems half of wealthy London have done a runner even out here, but in truth completely unsure of their corporate future - what they now are. I suppose having 'lived' when media and government worried them about death, even the adults who come to our paddocks are now unclear as to what next - but not here. Out there - into this land, it just feels irrelevant all that. Almost laughable (and so we did).
But i have simply never known such a glorious vista, space near any small town - perhaps just the positioning, and superb light, at that gate it feels like one is entering a happy kingdom where all behind is nothing. And that is the reason i persisted with frankly a few tough nuts. And it worked. |It is as if the fairies maybe do live in our woods around the edges of the paddocks (i jest) and they were kindof on our side.
As an additional rather lovely thing, and this scribe has never taken much interest in nags or nag folk, there is something so ridiculously happy about the way, as they graze and meander their paddocks, it is as if they cannot by definition miss a trick: as soon as there is any sound from our corner, immediately one or other nag stands to seemingly happy attention. Ears pricked. It is almost as if they know that coming through that gate will be someone just damn glad we have had this chance, out of the blue, to share their existence. And i have been around animals a lot. They're so damn happily part of it. We have never had one footstamp or moment of resistance from any of them.
But still it is almost the 'space' that has been the star. And i forgot that. And i wonder if it hasn't also worked a kind of magic on everyone else. Because we are all a little transformed as soon as we arrive at that gate. One of our ragtag band has serious chronic health issues that seem forgotten as soon as we are work in the field. Other aggros forgotten immediately. And fussy Hampstead behind us - not that far behind, and everything else these last nine months, disappears from thoughts immediately. But we don't go 'back' to as it was before 2020, we really do go forward somewhere almost new. I have travelled the world, meandered the most beautiful wildernesses, but have never known anything quite like it. This space - these acres, do have a special effect on the spirit.
The topography, and perhaps lie of the land for the creatures around and about that 'share' it with us, for example birdlife nesting in nearby woodland clearly do come down to the fields to sing and display which results in extra birdsong for sure, all mixes in to something amplified. The sum of all those parts coming up to this stretch of land, seems greater than the parts. Well to a human anyway.
********
Just some notes for a soon ‘first draft’.
And an utter pigs ear thus far.
Trying to tell a little of the story in pictures link on the pictures page of this website - see top bar of webpage. And loads more video to upload soon same page but so so slow speeds. Won't be improved until September.
To forget about those idiots and actually begin:
Somewhere in a rather rural spot in The Marches…. close to a so called 'border'.
Back last autumn. Autumn 2020 that is.
The
complete visceral …..
There is a story to be told. Maybe not for now, not just yet. But one day.
Whilst the
rest of the country rather felt sorry for themselves, we did something else. It
just arose, Phoenix. When it was impossible. And to me more importantly the
‘rest’ put far too many negative vibes onto the younger generation; whom - let’s
call a turkey a bird, aren’t going to get ill.
The complete visceral – a temporary way of putting it, as our little club has a new thrust, and it rather uses up my writing energy for now.
But wait til we ..... I, see what next.
I know they will not withhold yet further glowing gleeful
countenance. That is one thing now, it’s all so easy – it worked. But it was
those winter walks into the hills. People almost entirely new to each other in this time of national freakout. Did we all really
mean it? And just how did a group of utterly disparate people manage to get on at all, never mind so perfectly? Quite visceral all of it.
So many ‘risk’ factors. Only a couple of so lovely days walking close behind up into the hills as ‘safety’ monitors. Because after only a couple of days, not only did they need no monitoring, never mind the fact that they had trotted on up away from mere safety monitors.
And thus the monitors
began something else. Good, too. For many years I knew one thing: nothing is
possible in rural fringey areas, without some true ally. And it was impossible
to find never mind fashion one – because they need fashioning. It takes work and baptisms of
fire; and ice cold quips. Blood sweat and tears. Her gorgeous two fingers (oh how lovely "did you see that a right Harvey Smith?"). All made so much harder by one being a texter one a Wotsupper, and another ...well i shall not say; but does anyone ever read anything properly any more? But one shared enterprise always trumps pathetic ego
and frisky fizziness and stupid Miss Readings - the only one that ever in all of humanity mattered: that
we will find a way, through us, for them,
the next generation.
If i could
bottle those few first days, i would drink that liquor forever. It’s the
heartiest real bowl of splendid stew I have ever been nourished by. And like all great new
recipes, a fully aware person really is not at all sure at first if they’ve
poisoned themselves or at least have got it all so wrong - the sourness and
sweet really don’t work in conjunction and it’s bound to end in a chucking
up. Or at least the usual bolshie
footstamping. Be fearful! this is nuts!
From October 2020 – we just winged it. But we must never forget it. It needs to be bottled. I shall try. But you cannot bottle the energy that is almost performance art – artful, but also with that thing art can never give – the energy of subversive defiance and just living on; despite the rest. Seasoned with a perfect real smile of a child, even in the coldest season. Art as ‘response’ came true in real real life. All very odd – against all the odds, ever invented. And them kids knew they were in it together too - really too.
Which if nothing else to us will forever be visible in the smiles and memories of certain young women. They will never forget – oh how even ‘visceral’ as an overused word of late - is inadequate.
Just bottling that feeling – somehow. That damn it this needs to be done no matter what feeling. Cold or rain; bad news on the news, or no’.
What a load
of waffle for: of course those first few weeks were beyond words. And the gut
or spleen are just chunks of flesh. Spirit – pure slightly rebellious lifeforce ... indeed querying precisely the definition of that word, rebel. Because there
are possibly subversive acts that just need to be done. For a greater good. And
be-damned with what others think! Or the
fearful neurosis they broadcast day in and out.
Cold days in the hills, the cold irrelevant. That we were in the hills, together – a few of us I randomly purloined into gatherations.... (no one blocked them on radio 4, so they are legal..in my book..... especially if for ‘animal welfare’ – nags need to be rode.... full stop...or like chubby middle aged people they die, or go very lame - terminally too......)
Smiling
gatherations. Real smiles. No masks as is so often the case of, even here - the middle class lotus-eating (“do you have it
in the gluten free version”) sybarite, live behind that of their painted on
smile. 7 yo 12 year olds don’t smile by
rote. They smile when they feel.
Real. And are doing something which mum and dad couldn’t really afford, before;
and they, before, couldn’t really do.
But now ...can.
And
fuckit.... one can feel, their feeling..... it is catching. Their real joy. Their
spirit. And it is of course infectious. That healthiest infection there is: it
ain’t about us, it’s only about, them.
Click on photos and they enlarge, or should, if this tech ....works....
Especially
that day in February when we are coming down from our longest hack; when three
girls peel off on a side track and they leave behind the
two adults with them to clip clop down the hilltop road being adults, i
knew then that we had done it.
They owned
their future, and now. They are indeed free, to be, next. Really valuing every second with a youngster
is one thing - the greatest gift; but
seeing, especially the novice so confidently stake her claim to needing no more
any monitoring, and heading aside alone, with her new friends, is the true only
prize.
Never mind,
a lifetime: many false goddesses; now I know what a real one is like, to ride
beside. (well two actually hahh hahh) And riding “bores me to death”. A real
one knows what is in your mind: that Odysseus was a fey ponce, there are no
trials and tribulations when the purpose is so simple and time immemorial – to
see any children, become adults. Or at least move up a level when all others
are so stuck.
To be there
letting them go.... Me and goddess #1
.... well. “Job done” understates, too. Never mind how can one possibly have
the happiest most satisfying moment of life with or without present goddess,
when even a few lifetime heroes - even
the Pilgers of this world, are just moaning in public and feeling sorry for
..... well we better not go there yet. And we are all humble when it comes to
cash. No spare to go around.
But I run
ahead. It was, to start, the ..... well fear is a big word and overused. Just the sense of - well we were out of our depth perhaps? “This
daft chap.... ehhh is this going to ‘work’...?” And then all the rest are so
eyes down and faces hidden. And will there be tales told? Never mind border guards.
But even
that is getting ahead of myself.
The start
was a layby September 2020. Is it her story? It is not mine. I am only as I
ever was – or for at least the last twenty years. My own story is that by some
sublime conjunction of every rune and goddess juggling all the prizes in
Christendom in a vortex of quantum entanglement and nonsense snake oil vending machines (generally known
as “ohh no not another of them..oh you should see them on your facebook...
likely now infecting ‘insta’ too”) a simple thing worked. Again. .
But it certainly became her story. She needs no story. She just is.
Twelve, and.....
well that’s not my business, and i would
rather there were three or four of her..... for her. And sortfof, that happened
too.. When it was impossible.
I wish I
could paint. The magnificent countenance of a few girls …. Who became more
rightfully, young women. ‘Real’ ones. Perhaps I have some photos that capture a
little of it? But that’s the point: sitting for hours going through the files,
never mind the hours to upload – steals. Takes away, from what still vibrates within.
And if it really was the very best I have ever known I think when you get to
this age, you should know by now, yes enjoy and live it still because there is
no other gift that even half compares.
But i
canter on when i need to start at the starting gate. (oh what a lovely pun that is but you had to be there
– as they fought around me and ego battled – why?)
Me I was quite
happy to hide away in solitude last early winter…. Because i had so much
ridiculously good stuff to write poetry about in respect of everything from the
moment it all started. Thirteen months ago.
But really a lot longer ago. Time to do that at last.
And although
this - or this version, there may have
to be two, but version two is years hence, if at all, is not in any way about
me, there is one personal moment and context to share that sums it all up. I sleep like a country log – always pass out
on the couch at nine, up with the dawn or winter pre-dawn most happily. Every
day. No matter what. And i don’t drink. Or if i do it is at Corbynite quantities
“occasionally at a wedding or funeral
only” And i haven’t been to a wedding for many years.
The evening
into night of the 18th February this year i could not sleep. The
bubbling up of joy and pleasure simply would not pop and leave me be. Could not
stop smiling even trying to sleep. Christmas
just gone i had been given only one small present – laughingly rejected “ohhhh
more poison..i see” - a small family
giftbag with a few things, mainly a couple of small bottles of home brewed
gin.... Planning to leave them for some very special day, who knows when, at 1am
that night i had to relent and have a swig. Nothing
else was going to anaesthetize. Nothing else could slow down the ever expanding
bubbles of pleasure.
Feb 2021
..............But i get
ahead of myself.
To start: The
nags were off to glue. To end (in case
they get me today), what a truly fabulous example of what sadly none of the
many Corbynites i knew could never do – create true mutual aid
communitarianism...no matter what! .... that works. A miracle.
And no
money ever ever involved. Always free,
that my deal. Not that any of us have any spare – we are all humble fairly
lowly folk. This is not about yummy mummies (or The Waitrose Bags as i call
them as shortcut language) and spoiled horsey lasses. Many whom did invade even
this region these last years – especially these last few months. Meaning of course that those of us whom rent
really are now in big big trouble as gentrification spreads like a plague even
out here. (and rents went UP! Mid last spring...)
In fact the
story does need to be told as they are all my heroes. For them. Long after I am
gentrified out of the region – long planned anyway, had enough of them Waitrose
Bags – so dull the lot of em. They may be less at ease with sharing that –
their heroism, even nowadays in the days
of every crappy fake claim as standard. There is nothing fake here. Its real
life. And i hope that they will never
forget even if they do not know quite how they all thrilled me with us all
mucking in – one way or other.... not letting assumption or wariness damage.
Just doing it. Because we can.
That is the
actual purpose of this page that may become something else. But it may be years
before they realise how important and unique it was. Still is.
Myself i
was mentored and guided by the most beautiful old rustic cantankerous man imaginable
when i was a twelve year old - for half
a dozen years he was my everything as we sharpened tools, chopped wood, built
fences. And in fact still every day his spirit lives inside me. It is for his
love that i can put up with anything. Always. It matters.
But they
don’t know – none..... i have hinted, there is only one young woman, as always,
it was really....for. And thus this
is not over yet – it is still alive as a project. There is still tension.
Because as of yet, she still will not jump that terrible hurdle – fear. When
she knows on the other side is flat racing lands, and you don’t need a helmet.
I never
give up. But these criminal reprobates – helped...kept me even more alive than
usual. And i simply had no idea six months ago that could ever be possible – i had
all i ever needed, peace. But there’s a time sometimes for something more.
Never mind
the best jokes ever out of the blue especially about scratch n’ sniff and
running the ‘border’ and machine gun
turrets, and her use of string.... And it being far more visceral and even fun when, maybe....maybe ......’illicit’.
Propper pic of our girls - errata, young women, coming one day....
all together....big group hug.....
